


Fuss & Misery

by aer0se



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Coming of Age, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Other, Possibly Unrequited Love, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 13:48:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19230361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aer0se/pseuds/aer0se
Summary: "Same as the winter, this ritual is an apoptosis, natural, accepted, and wonderfully horologic; it is a small yet important blip in Snufkin's routine. It is a curiosity then he didn't trust his gut."In which Snufkin learns change is not always a choice.





	Fuss & Misery

The air hangs thick, like sun ripened grapes on the precipice of overdue, bowing the vines with their fullness. Like the grape bound to drop, Moomin valley is approaching the end of autumn's exhale and preparing for the sharp intake of winter. Snufkin takes a long drag from his pipe, tasting the change even in the blackened air. 

"I'll be off tomorrow", Snufkin tells Moomin, who doesn't reply. 

Snufkin keeps his word.

It only takes three days or so for the weight on Snufkin's mind to be remedied and replaced by the pack on his back. When one has a full stomach and a hand to hold it allows room for the mind to wander, apparently farther than it should. The crunching of Snufkin's boots on the snow are a river, sweeping away his thoughts. Tranquility is a potent medicine, cheap too, all one needs is some distance and a pipe to puff on. He pulls his frayed scarf a little tighter around, for the frost had begun nipping at his neck. Homeostasis is rather low on the hierarchy of needs, and while Snufkin isn't one to be overly philosophical, he's willing to give some credence to the idea that one cannot ponder a lot when their internal stability is threatened. That night Snufkin buries himself in his bedroll, the contrast making it that much warmer.

Morning dawns, the heather grey light tickling Snufkin's eyes. He squints in the morning shine, already able to tell that something is not right. Scanning his campsite however he finds it hard to place what's off. 

"Perhaps it looked different in the firelight is all...", he muses to himself, chocking it up to the fogginess one gets when they wake. He splashes some river water on the surviving embers, watching them sizzle and extinguish like every morn before. Same as the winter, this ritual is an apoptosis, natural, accepted, and wonderfully horologic; it is a small yet important blip in Snufkin's routine. It is a curiosity then he didn't trust his gut.

The snow is lighter, a dainty flocculence dusting the pines boughs. Despite itching for distraction, he feels no urge to reach for his harmonica. Not many venture through these woods, such that the middle ground between those who hibernate and those who don't is often desolate. In years prior Snufkin had encountered no better stage, for the forest is a most well-mannered audience. Presently, however, the shadows seem longer, and he isn't sure if they would like his song.

Usually by three weeks Snufkin would've passed the point of snow. While a particularly cold winter is nothing unheard of, Snufkin's nerves convince him to consult his compass anyways. What he finds is, well, that he doesn't find it. 

"Perhaps my weariness really is getting the best of me", Snufkin said, setting his pack down and rolling up his sleeves. 

An hour later, having removed and replaced the contents of his backpack more than a couple of times, Snufkin concedes with the reality that he must have lost it. He feels a twang of guilt, as it was a gift from Moominpappa. The shame flowers in his chest, then as quickly as it bloomed, it rots. He feels the line of thread connecting him back to the Moomin's home, and, initially warmed by it, Snufkin thoughtfully twists it around his finger. He thinks of how cozy they must all be, snuggled in their mounds of blankets. Innocent fondness, suddenly too pungent, perverts into an ache. Like a boa around it's prey, the thread draws tighter, digging into him painfully. Taking a deep breath, he severs it and sets it aside, deciding that if he's meant to have the compass he'll come across it on the return. 

That night Snufkin once again left his bag out, opting to preserve the already limited space in his tent. As calmness follows storms, a rather dreamy peace of mind comes about Snufkin. He drinks in the balmy air and dozes off rather quickly, the picture of imperturbability.


End file.
